Save You
by LadySolitaire83
Summary: Sherlock deals with the death of someone he cares about. Set sometime between A Scandal in Belgravia and The Reichenbach Fall. Bit of an AU.


**SAVE YOU**

**A/N: I had a terrible and depressing weekend, so I channeled the pain and the sadness into this fic. You may need a hug and boxes of tissues after (or even during) reading this. Originally published on Tumblr on 11 August 2013.**

**I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**

* * *

John tapped on Sherlock's bedroom door. No answer. "Sherlock? Are you OK?" He knocked on the door again. Still no answer. "Sherlock? Please answer me. Just, uh, just let me know you're all right." He turned to their landlady, who was wringing her hands next to him, and then turned back to the closed door. "Mrs Hudson and I are worried about you. You haven't left your bedroom in seven days. You haven't eaten. You haven't had any fluids in you. Please, Sherlock." Still no answer.

He felt their landlady's hand on his shoulder. "I don't think he's ready yet, John."

He turned to face her. "But it's been a week!"

"It's a shock to everyone. He's just dealing with it in his own way." The elderly woman reached for his hand. "I'm sure he just doesn't want anyone to see him grieve."

He ran his hands through his hair. "But that's just it. We have each other and Lestrade and Stamford. But he's unable to deal with his emotions at the best of times. This?" He shook his head as he fought the tears from falling. "Mrs Hudson, this may be worse than when Irene Adler died. What if he relapses?"

The landlady hastily wiped her tears. "I'm sure he won't. You know, as a tribute to her. She took care of him after his last time in rehab. I don't think he'd disrespect her by turning to drugs again."

"What if he doesn't recover from this?"

The landlady gently tugged him away from Sherlock's bedroom door. He glanced at the door before letting Mrs Hudson lead him towards the sitting room. He plopped down on his favourite armchair and dropped his head in hands. "What if he's blaming himself right now?"

"It wasn't his fault." He raised his head in time for the landlady to offer him a cup of tea. He accepted it with a nod. "Neither was it yours."

"We were too late. We could have saved her." His voice broke as he finally let the tears fall. "If we didn't chase after our suspect, if I didn't ignore my calls, if _he_ didn't ignore _his_ calls, we would have been in time to save her."

Mrs Hudson placed her hands on his shoulders. He looked up to see her eyes harden. "Listen to me, John Watson. The two of you saved lives by apprehending the murderer. She knew that. She would understand that."

"But she was calling us!" He immediately regretted raising his voice when Mrs Hudson flinched. He set the rapidly cooling cup of tea down on the table and covered the landlady's trembling hands with his. "I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." She smiled at him and she sat down on Sherlock's armchair once he let go of her hands. "She probably thought that you were on a case. It was unfortunate, but it still wasn't your fault."

"Yeah. And she probably thought that we didn't care. She tried to get a hold of us several times. We were too busy saving other people when our friend was being tortured. She died without knowing that Sherlock shot her killer until all the bullets were spent. She died without seeing how he wept holding her body. He was pleading with her. He was asking her to come back to him. We should have been there for her, but we weren't. But you and I can deal with the pain and the guilt. I don't know if Sherlock can."

Mrs Hudson nodded. "I don't know what to say, John. I've never seen him like this. I never knew he could be like this after losing a friend."

"It's because we didn't know we'd lose her. I didn't even know how much he cared about her until-" He blinked several times and took deep breaths until he could compose himself. After a moment of silence, he rose from his chair and clenched his jaw. "I can't just sit here and do nothing. It's her funeral tomorrow and I need to make sure that Sherlock is there to pay his respects."

The landlady rose as well. "What are you going to do then?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm going to talk him through the pain and the guilt. He'll most likely resist at first, but I won't rest until I'm sure he'll be all right."

Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms around him. He returned the gesture and let a tear fall. "Bless you, John Watson. Please tell him she loved him and she's probably watching over him now."

"I will, Mrs Hudson." He couldn't help smiling as he imagined her with angel wings and following his friend around to make sure he was safe. Then his chest tightened and tears welled up when an evil voice whispered to him that they should have made sure she was safe.

He let go of their landlady and gave her a curt nod before striding towards Sherlock's bedroom door. "Sherlock?" he said as he knocked once. No answer. He took a deep breath as he opened the door.

What struck him first was the utter darkness in the room. The curtains were drawn and none of the lamps were lit. The grey winter afternoon added to the gloominess in the room. He turned on the nearest lamp and stared at his friend's blanket-covered form on the bed. He didn't move even as he approached the bed. Sighing, he went around the bed and turned on the lamp on the other side. Even then, his friend didn't move. Afraid that he had died in his sleep, he removed the blanket covering his friend's head and body. He took a step back as Sherlock's tearful eyes stared back at him. He blinked and tears flowed onto his already soaked pillow.

Relieved that the detective was still breathing, he sat down on the bed. He slowly put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He cleared his throat before looking into his flatmate's eyes. "Have you slept at all?"

At first, Sherlock only stared at him, his eyes racked with guilt, regret, and grief. Then he blinked and wiped his tears with the back of his hand. "No," he croaked.

"Are you hungry? I ordered your favourite from the Chinese restaurant down the road." Sherlock shook his head. "Thirsty? I'm sure Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind making another cup of tea."

"No. Leave me alone, John." He moved to turn away from his flatmate, but the tight grip on his shoulder prevented him from doing so. "For the record, I am fine. I am neither hungry nor thirsty. I don't need you. I don't need Mrs Hudson. The two of you can cry together. In fact, do whatever you want. As long as you leave me alone."

"You're grieving. Our hearts are all broken by her death. But I'm worried that you're not handling it well."

Sherlock's stare hardened and he sat up. The pain in the detective's eyes scared the former army doctor. "She just didn't die, John. She was _murdered_ because of me. One of my enemies kidnapped, tortured, and killed her after he escaped from prison. He took her away from me because she was important to me. I just lost my pathologist. Of course, I'm not handling it well."

"I'm here if you want to talk about it. We both lost a friend. I understand-"

"You understand _nothing_," he growled. His eyes flashed with anger. "You don't see her face every time you close your eyes. You don't hear her laughter, her voice, every time you try to sleep. You don't remember her smile. You don't have a mind palace where there's an entire room filled with your memories of her. You don't remember every hurtful word you said to her. You never had to depend on her for anything. You didn't hold her lifeless body in your arms. You aren't haunted by the bullet hole between her eyes. You never lost the chance to tell her how much she counted. So, no, you don't understand what I'm going through."

Sherlock's words both surprised and angered John. But he only clenched his fists because he knew that lashing out was better than returning to drugs. "You're wrong. You're not the only one blaming yourself for her death. You have no idea how much I want to shoot myself for failing to save her. She was my friend too. Do you think I wanted her to die? No, I didn't. I'd seen enough of my friends dying in Afghanistan. But they were fighting for their country and they understood that they might die there. None of my friends have been murdered in cold blood and she didn't have to die. She meant something to me too. The only thing that stopped me from shooting her killer was you beating me to it." He wiped away the tear that rolled down his cheek. "So don't _ever_ tell me that I don't understand what you're going through."

"No, John. It was all my fault. You didn't put her killer in prison years ago. I did. He killed her to hurt me. While her death hurt you, it's never going to haunt you for the rest of your life. You know why?" The former army doctor shook his head. He had never seen so much pain and regret in his friend's eyes and he didn't know how to respond. "Because she died thinking that I didn't care about her. She knew you did. But me? I'd been a bloody arsehole to her. I could never tell her that I cared, because I didn't even know that I did until I lost her." Sherlock was openly weeping now. "I tried protecting her by pretending that she didn't matter, that I only used her for my cases and my experiments, that she was merely a tool for me. But she wasn't. She did count. She'd always counted and I'd always trusted her. She was clever and faithful. No matter how many times I hurt her, she was still willing to help me."

"You love her." Sherlock only stared at him. "I could never figure out why you'd stay in your bedroom for seven straight days. Molly Hooper's death incapacitated you. You couldn't sleep, eat, play your violin, or shoot the bloody wall. Have you been crying nonstop since she died?"

"Are you making fun of me?" The hurt in the eyes of the man he thought was a machine broke his heart.

"No, no, not at all. I'm just trying to understand why you're handling her death like this."

"I'd probably handle your death the same way," the detective pointed out.

"Maybe so. But this is different. You know that I can take care of myself. You've never tried to protect me by pretending that you didn't care about me. You never thought that your enemies could be clever enough to figure out that she mattered to you. Only they didn't know how much it would kill you if you lost her. Now that you have, it's like you lost the will to live."

"Is that why it aches here?" He placed his hand over where his heart would be. John nodded. They were silent for a few minutes. "So what do I do now?"

"Well, first, you're going to get up and take a shower. Then you're going to eat. Mrs Hudson is beside herself with worry."

"No, that's not what I meant. What do I do when I'm in the morgue or the lab at Barts for a case and she's not there? How do I get rid of the pain in my chest?"

John shook his head. "I don't know, mate. We'll deal with it as we go along. One step at a time, OK? But promise me that you will never go back to drugs."

"I won't. It would be disrespectful to her memory if I did." He gestured for John to move and removed the blanket. He stood up from the bed, wobbling a little until he grabbed the edge of his dresser. "When is her memorial service?"

John watched him closely as he began to walk towards the bathroom. "Tomorrow, at 10 AM. Her funeral is at 11 AM. You need to be there."

"I will. I need to say goodbye."

The former army doctor nodded. "OK. Do you need my help?"

"I'm not a child, John. I can shower by myself." He was a few steps from the door when he turned back to his flatmate. "Thank you," he said, his voice breaking a little.

"You're welcome." Sherlock was about to take another step when John remembered what Mrs Hudson said. "Oh, Sherlock? She loved you and she's probably watching over you now." The detective only nodded before opening the door.

John went to the kitchen once he heard the shower running. He found Mrs Hudson already putting on the kettle and the Chinese takeaway set on the clean kitchen table. "So?"

"He's in the shower. He should be out soon." He stood next to her.

"And is he going to her memorial service?" He nodded. "Will he be all right?"

He sighed. "I don't know. One step at a time, I guess. We all need to keep an eye on him."

* * *

The next day, John stood with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as he watched Sherlock say goodbye to Molly. He couldn't hear what his friend was saying, but he hoped that he was finally telling her how much he cared about her. Five minutes later, Sherlock was walking towards them.

"What did you say to her?" Lestrade asked.

"What she needed to know," Sherlock answered. He glanced at Molly's grave before turning back to the DI. "Do you have a case for me?"

They began walking towards the exit. "Uh, yes. Don't you think it's too soon for-"

"Is it a murder?" The sad look on Sherlock's face broke John's heart.

"Well, no. A kidnapping, actually."

Sherlock sighed in relief. "Great. We'll drop off Mrs Hudson at Baker Street, and then we'll follow you to the crime scene."

The DI nodded. He glanced at John, who only shrugged. "All right. I'll text you the address." Lestrade took his leave and headed for his car.

"So what did you tell her?" John asked.

"What I should have told her before she was taken away from me." Sherlock was looking at his phone when he answered, but John could imagine the pain in his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock." John didn't tell Mrs Hudson what he and the detective talked about. But, somehow, she knew what it was.

To their surprise, Sherlock turned to her and smiled, his first smile since Molly died. "One step a time, Mrs Hudson." After a minute of silence, he spoke again. "I took the liberty of purchasing her headstone. I've already talked to her mother and she said it's fine.'

"What are you going to put on it?"

"Besides her name, date of birth, and date of death, it'll say, 'The One Who Counted'."

Mrs Hudson and John shared a smile. "That's lovely, Sherlock," the landlady remarked.

"Yes, thank you. John, take Mrs Hudson home. I'm going straight to the crime scene. Text me when you're on your way." With that, he hailed a cab for his flatmate and landlady. Then he hailed a cab for himself.

Mrs Hudson looked back at his cab as theirs pulled away from the kerb. "Poor boy."

"We're going to need to hold his hand while he grieves because he doesn't know how to. At least he's taking cases again. I don't think he'll be taking murders for a while, though. The pain is still too raw for him. He can't step into Barts without thinking of her."

Mrs Hudson reached for his hand. "One step at a time."

"Yeah. One step at a time," he repeated as the cab sped towards Baker Street.

* * *

_Apologies if this fic made you cry or sad. Hope you guys liked this one, though. Reviews? Constructive criticism?  
_


End file.
